The Bookish Life of Nina Hill(15)

“Men who like Star Trek but not Star Wars, or the other way around. As if they’re so incredibly different. Or who only like the original Star Trek.”

“Or who use the word ‘canon’ without irony when talking about comic books.”

“Hey, can we get back to Nina’s love life, and then the book we’re supposed to be discussing?” Daisy really did like to stay on schedule.

“There’s nothing to discuss about my love life. I can’t see myself dating someone who doesn’t read books. What would we talk about?” Nina was also ready to get back to the book.

“I think it’s good to date people who spend time in the real world.” Everyone turned to look at Vanessa, who was still blushing a bit from the pussy-whispering part. “Look, last year I dated a guy who could actually hang a picture.”

“Really?” Lauren was surprised.

“Yeah. He changed his own oil.”

“Olive or automobile?”

“Car oil. He cooked. He had a dog he’d trained to do stuff. Impressive stuff, like jump off the guy’s back and catch a Frisbee.”

“Huh.” Nina was interested. “But he didn’t read?”

Vanessa shook her head. “No. He was too outdoorsy. He didn’t like to sit still for very long, you know?”

“And that worked?”

Vanessa nodded, suddenly looking a little sad. “Yeah, it really did. He didn’t care I was less outdoorsy. He went off and did his thing and I went and read books and it was fine.”

There was a pause, and then Leah asked the obvious question. “So, what happened?”

Vanessa shrugged. “He broke up with me and started dating a personal trainer who competed in that competition where they do the crazy obstacle courses.”

Silence.

“She could scale a rope wall in eight seconds.”

Silence.

“I bet she had no imagination,” Nina said, comfortingly.

“Yeah,” Vanessa replied. “Shall we get back to the book?”

So they did. Because, as Neil Gaiman once memorably said, “Books were safer than other people, anyway.”

When Nina got home from book club, she had an e-mail from Peter Reynolds.

“Hey there,” it began. “This is a weird thing to say, but I am your nephew and until recently neither of us knew the other existed. Sorry about that. Sarkassian thought I might be able to help you understand the family you inherited, and I’d certainly be happy to try. Would you like to have coffee or something? Let me know. Your little nephew Peter, ha ha.”

Nina looked at it for a long time. She could always ignore it. She really had things pretty much together right now; she didn’t need any new complications. Then again, what if there was a very sporty member of her new family who could help her edge out Quizzard? And why was that guy getting under her skin so much, the big, good-looking dumbass? She decided her friends at book club were right: She was being a little Lizzy Bennet about him. I care not one fig, she told herself firmly. I am not in any way intrigued. And besides, I have plenty of other things to think about.

“Dear Peter,” she wrote. “I must admit this whole thing has been a bit of a shock, and I have no real comprehension of what just happened. It would probably be helpful to get my head around it with someone who understands it all. Here’s my number. Why don’t you text me if Friday lunchtime works for you. Love, Aunty Nina, which is hilarious even to write.” Then she put a smiley face so he’d know she was joking, and hit send.

See? Not distracted by the guy in any way. Totally focusing on more important things. One hundred percent not thinking about him. Or his hands. Not at all.





Six




In which Nina feels less alone,

but not necessarily in a good way.

Peter Reynolds and Nina had agreed to meet for lunch at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, the modern art museum in mid-Wilshire. It was right next to the Tar Pits, with their disturbing, life-sized models of mammoths stuck in the tar-filled pond. Nina remembered standing by the fence around the pond as a child, agonizing over the baby mammoth. He (or she; it was hard to gender-identify a mammoth at fifty feet, probably even for other mammoths) was standing at the side of the pond panicking because his parents were having a problem he couldn’t understand. Nina had been a child with a rich imagination and way too much empathy, so after a few tearful visits, her nanny, Louise, had stopped bringing her.

“It’s only a model, baby,” she had explained. “It’s not real.”

“I know,” wailed eight-year-old Nina. “But it could be real, right? Mammoths did get stuck in the tar. That’s why all their bones are here, right?”

Louise had nodded.

“Well then,” cried Nina. “This is a model, but it’s Real Life, too, and a real baby mammoth might have watched his parents get stuck and starve because they couldn’t get out and days and days would go by, and they’d keep telling him to go find food, or somewhere safe, and he would say, ‘No, Mommy, come out of the tar,’ and then she would say, ‘I can’t, baby,’ and she would have cried and he would have cried or maybe some nasty dinosaur would’ve come and eaten him and his mommy wouldn’t have been able to help and it would have been awful . . .” And then Louise, who didn’t think it was the right time to point out dinosaurs and mammoths hadn’t lived at the same time, realized it really would have been awful, and then the Tar Pits were ruined for her, too.